


A dance that needs no color

by minjazmin



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Anal Sex, Body Worship, Bottom Hannibal Lecter, Canon-Typical Violence, Dirty Talk, Hannibal is an obsessed simp, It's just a thinly veiled plot to justify the porn at the end :), Light BDSM, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Praise Kink, Top Will Graham, Will is a ballet dancer and Hannibal is his usual pretentious self, but that is just canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:42:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29923254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minjazmin/pseuds/minjazmin
Summary: “Tell me, Will, what do you believe Rachmaninov would have wanted to see?”“When he saw the painting for the first time in person, he was disappointed – its color, its true hue did not live up to what he believed the painting to be. Dasha has painted the stage with color and it isn’t what was intended for the peace – Why do we dance a story of lost love, and not one of the perilous freedoms which death might bring?”“You wish to dance amongst waves, rowing ceaselessly until you reach the Isle?”“I wish to be the waves, Dr. Lecter. A thunderous motion which just might drown you before you reach the shore.”
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 3
Kudos: 45
Collections: Hannibal Flash Fic #008





	A dance that needs no color

The air was cold as it whipped at Will’s cheeks; no amount of layers could save him from the frost as it crept its way through his bones. The song that played in his headphones was unfamiliar; letting the radio play out whatever cheery tune allowed him to ignore the endless tones that pattered in his head. Never a step out of line, never a breath out of beat. The simple beat of the popular song that droned in his eyes did little to sink him away from himself. 

He turned the last corner and was finally at his destination. Normally he would get a bus, but none ran this early to this part of town. 

The theater was brand new; the donation of some unnamed patron of the arts. A beautiful thing that made the old halls look pathetic. When the coach had first handed Will a key, he had thought of a thousand ways in which to deny it before finally settling on a placid ‘thank you’. Prescribed medications only worked so well to give the hours of sleep which he was supposed to be getting, but at least the coach would only berate him so much if the sleepless hours were spent on practice. 

It was 4.37 am. 

The rush and clamor to finish the construction and start the production meant that Will and company were forced to continue working in the practice rooms rather than the main stage; even now only a week and a half before the opening night. If the warning signs and covering sheets were still on the stage floor after the weekend Will just might rip them away himself. It was ridiculous that they were expected to work at full capacity when they had been unable to even able to stand upon their stage and imagine the audience before them. 

The click of the lock and the sliding of the door allowed Will to escape the horrid cold that had made his fingers numb and his face scarlet. His eyes were focused on his phone for a moment; switching off the music and stuffing it into his bag. As he brought his eyes up from the ground, the sight before him was inescapable. A distant sensation that he decided to call queasiness rose within him; his eyes could not tear away from the beautiful viscera before him. 

A solitary man graced the stage. 

In arabesque penché, the man’s legs formed a perfect line with one foot reaching to the sky. But it was not skill which had bought him there, but force. Bloody force had ensured his leg would manage what he alone was incapable of. Underneath the skin, Will could only imagine the contorted muscles and the cracked bones. Will’s body had been trained to such positions, but this man had been given no choice in its contortions. His skin was already too pale and mottled to quite distinguish the bruises, but Will had suffered them enough to imagine what they may look like underneath the figure’s white outfit. 

Their arms outstretched; reaching for their love on the other side of the stage. But their love cannot be found; only a sea of flowers. White lilies interspersed with red roses formed a crescent across the floor which the dancer had no way of reaching. There is a familiarity in the scene and Will places it immediately. The final act of the ballet, his final scene reimagined. A message written just for him. 

Will knew he should run; tear his eyes away and call the cops. But he couldn’t. He didn’t want to. 

The dead man’s outfit was so exact in its design that Will wondered if it were the one that had been made just for him. Oh, how Dasha would yell about the pain of removing blood from white. The shirt hung wide open; flowy and tucked into the tight white pants. Clean incisions across the chest and stomach told Will not all of the organs were left intact. As his eyes wandered back to the ridiculous bouquet, he saw a fleshy muscle sat amongst them. A heart. A gift. 

His own heart pounded in his chest as he looked back to the man; rigor mortis had set in and Will could only imagine the struggle which would befall the unfortunate mortician who would have to sort this one out. 

Before Will fed his urge to reach out and touch the man, he grabbed his phone from his bag and dialed 911. 

“Will, hey– Will, are you listening to me? Will Graham!” By the time Beverly was stood only inches from him as he stretched on the barre, it was more than evident that Will Graham was not in fact listening. A playful pinch to the tender flesh of his upper arm brought him hurtling back to her. 

“Shit, Bev, sorry I was-” He trailed off, rubbing at the arm with exaggerated suffering across his face. 

“Screw you, Will Graham.” 

“What have I done now?” 

“If you’d have woken me up and forced me to come and practice, I would have been able to see it for myself.” 

The scene flashed across his mind in vivid detail; a wound that seemed to be healing until light pressure was applied. The hours of sleep which Will was managing to get always found him back at that place; admiring the declaration. Perhaps Beverly’s fascination was less morbid and more scientific, but their joint thrill in the macabre had bought them together. Will wasn’t entirely sure how Beverly was managing to major in forensic science alongside being the prima ballerina and he was too scared to ask. 

“If I’d have woken you up at 4 am, you would have beat me to death. Then I would be dead, you would be dead because Dasha would have killed you for screwing up her show, and _no one_ would have got to see it.” 

Beverly waved her hand vaguely as if to agree but without the willingness to say the words out loud. She stretched out easily across the barre and smiled at him in anticipation. Her eyes filled; the thrill of the macabre overtaking her. 

“ _Fine_ , I’ll tell you everything,” Will promised. “But only if you are the one to tell Dasha my outfit won’t be out of the evidence locker for a long time.” 

As if summoned by her name, a slew of angry Russian curse words grew louder down the hall. Someone quickly switched on the music and Rachmaninov’s _Isle of the Dead_ blared out into the room. 

“Nine days to go, a body on the stage, and despite it being 8.17 am you are still not practicing,” Dasha’s eyes scanned the room to all the dancers who had suddenly turned to statues. “The Lord is testing me today.” 

The show was over, but the performance was only just beginning. 

It was in times like this when Will had wished his father’s cruel words had not spurred him on. A lamb for slaughter was not forced to face the eyes of the butchers; yet here they stood the rich elites, the ones who _made_ the dancers’ careers. The main performers stood in their line performing the painted smiles and merry greetings they had come to know so well. The performance would only truly end once they were free from the leering eyes. 

When finally the crowd had passed, Dasha quickly strode over to him and Will realized this was far from over for him. There was someone who he _must meet._ If it weren’t for the fact they were in public, Dasha might have dragged Will by the ear. Her iron-grip on his wrist as she led him through the crowd was enough to ensure he would not attempt escape. Dasha’s eyes were full of joy; a rare sight even for the most talented of her proteges. It was directed not at Will, but the man who she had dragged him towards. 

“Dr. Lecter, Will Graham. Will, Dr. Hannibal Lecter.” 

Dr. Hannibal Lecter must have been about ten years older than Will; his tailored suit spoke of money and the well-maintained body hidden beneath. He had a harsh face; straight lines and angles that were softened only by the unreadable expression that swam in his eyes. There was hunger and want, and Will could only assume that his eyes gave back some similarly desiring expression. 

Will made sure he was first to extend a courteous hand and Dr. Lecter’s own was quick to come and meet it. Will let Hannibal set the pace of the handshake; the cut of the man’s suit alone told him the man was experienced in such matters of courtship and social behaviors. With a final look which said ‘ _Don’t be rude to the rich man’_ , Dasha left to greet the other patrons. 

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Lecter.” 

As their hands fell apart, Will let his fingers gratuitously linger against Hannibal’s before pulling away. There was a sweet delight in the gentle blush that came to the older man’s cheeks. 

“The pleasure is all mine. The performance was perfect. A treat for the eyes,” Hannibal complimented, eyes shameless in their exploration of Will’s face. 

“The performance was not perfect, but I thank you for the compliment.” 

“Well, _you_ were. That much is true.” 

Will said nothing; never one to take compliments well. But he had no intentions of arguing with the man because he knew he was right. Any faux pas that had occurred was not due to Will’s hand. 

“There was much to be inspired by,” Will retorted casually. 

Piercing eyes drunk in the sight of him; Hannibal hung on every word he spoke. The man was quite beautiful like this; unable to do anything but lap up what Will was giving him. It was too tempting not to push the man further. 

“If you wish to ask me out, then you should just ask me out, Dr. Lecter,” Will let a crooked grin paint his face as he leaned in towards Hannibal’s ear. “But I only put out on the first date if I don’t intend to see you again.” 

“Well, I guess I’ll have to wait then, won’t I?” Hannibal jibed back, but the way his lip twitched in anticipation was unmistakable to Will. “You finish practice at 8. Shall I pick you up from here or would you prefer to go home and change first?” 

“Don’t you like me in tight pants and a white shirt? I can open it and expose my flesh if you wish.” 

Will wandered a nonchalant hand down his chest; as he pressed the material against himself, it made visible his pink nipples through the thin fabric. The man before him did nothing to avert his eyes, even once he had realized that Will was watching every movement of his glaring pupils. A lick of Hannibal’s tongue wetted his bottom lip and Will contemplated pushing him up against the wall and taking him right there. But he couldn’t. Not tonight. 

“I only wish you to be comfortable, my dear boy.” 

“How sweet,” Will let his hand wander up until it rested on Hannibal’s chest, rubbing gentle circles into the muscles hidden beneath layers of cloth. “But I cannot do tomorrow. In fact, it might be a little while before I can do any night. The show takes such a toll. How about you give me your number and I’ll let you know when I’m available?” 

“Hello, Will. I hope now is a good time.” 

The detective’s eyes fell to the chaotic scene over Will’s shoulder; the older woman’s commands shouted in a foreign tongue as her hands flew about in all directions. 

“Honestly you could take me for 10 seconds and it would be too long for Dasha’s liking...” Will joked. “You said you had some more questions for me, Detective Crawford.” 

“Well simply I wanted to ask if you knew any of these people,” The older man handed over a stack of files and stepped back as if to give Will the space he might need to pour through them. 

There were five files in total. 4 men and one woman. Alexsander Baranowski, Michael Smith, Isaac Washington, Johnathan Yang, Justine Turner. No name stood out to Will as his eyes scanned the contents of the documents. The little ID photos in the top corner were not large, but they showed Will enough of their face that he should be able to recognize it. 

“These three are definitely familiar; I can’t say I know them personally, but I am guessing from their information that they are dancers, too,” Will hummed. “So maybe we went to the same school or something?” 

“The four men attended the New Orleans School of Ballet at the same time as you.” 

“Oh, okay,” Will said, a shiver ran through him at the revelation. It would likely be mistaken for fear rather than excitement. “Baranowski was the victim, but who are the others.” 

“DNA evidence of these five individuals was found at the crime scene.” 

“You think they committed the crime. I didn’t know them so-” 

“No, they are all dead.” 

An uneasy feeling hung over his shoulders as the small photos all peered up at him. Dead eyes accusing him of things he had not done. 

“What kind of evidence did you find? ...If you can say.” 

“The eyes of the victim had been removed and replaced with those of Smith’s. His heart was replaced with Washington’s. And strangest of all, Yang’s right foot replaced Baranowski’s own. Ms. Turner’s was the heart which sat in the floral arrangement across the stage.” 

“I don’t know what to say...” 

Will knew exactly what to say, but could not bring himself to say it. 

“You didn’t know anyone who might connect you to all these people while you were in school?” 

“If I’m honest, Detective, I didn’t have any friends whilst I was at school. So other than a tutor or a mentor, I can’t think of anyone who could have connected us all.” 

“And no one in your life currently who seems suspicious? Or like they could acquire such information about you?” 

“No.” 

It was a lie. But Jack Crawford did not seem to notice. 

“Very well, I won’t keep you any longer,” Crawford’s eyes veered towards the woman who was still shouting, but now switching between foreign and English cuss words as she seemed to be shouting at a piece of prop scenery. “But I’ll call if we need anything else.” 

“Thank you, Detective.” 

Will handed back the files with one last glance. The blue of Michael Smith’s eyes staring up at him eternally. As he walked back to the stage it was all he could think of. 

Baranowski with his dark curls and pale skin. 

Baranowski whose eyes were brown. 

Baranowski who only last year developed a heart condition. 

Baranowski who had slipped and broken his foot, ruining all chances he had ever had of dancing again. 

The pieces had been added to him to make him whole. To fix what had been broken. To make him perfect again. To make the man more like Will. 

It had been seven shows since their beginning. Each as rigorous as the last. The audience an everchanging sea; washed up by the tide and gone again in a split second. New faces and new eyes to bear their judgment against the creatures which writhed across the stage before them. All new except one, all new except the maroon eyes in the front row, which never turned themselves away. 

With almost 48 hours between now and the next performance – the longest break in the season thus far – Will had allowed this night to be the one where he accepted Doctor Lecter’s request. There had been something so delightful about holding the man’s anticipation in the palm of his hand and wringing it dry. But he could only deny himself so long. 

In the dressing room, he was sat with his feet in a bucket of ice with two shirts sat on his lap as he attempted to decide between the two. 

“Hey Will, we are going out for drinks,” Bev chimed as she leaned into him. 

“I can’t, I’m sorry, Bev.” 

“We aren’t going to drink, Dasha is like a bloodhound and after the last time we did... I think she might make some art of our dead bodies,” Beverly joked, before leaning closer to be more sincere. “But if you don’t want to come, don’t worry, I’ll make a good excuse for you!” 

“I, uh- I actually have a _good excuse_ this time.” 

The intrigue filled Beverly’s dark pupils; a question on her lips aching to come out. If he wanted to tell anyone, it was her, and so he did. 

“I have a date... Well, I don’t know if it is officially a date, but it is certainly something.” 

“Baby Graham has a date... Holy shit! Wear the red one, it will bring out your eyes,” Beverly said casually. “And Will Graham, you had better tell me _everything_ about them.” 

Will’s wine glass was filled only with water; a painful sacrifice that must be taken for the sake of swollen joints and a fuzzy head. He looked out at the beautiful night; tinkering lights and clouds passing across the inky blue sky. From the balcony of Hannibal’s apartment, all the world seemed so small and inconsequential. 

The meal before them was simple, or at least that is how Hannibal had described it. Will wondered what Hannibal might think of Will’s version of simple; which usually involved throwing together an assortment of whatever high-protein food he had in arm’s reach. 

“You might be Dasha’s star patron, the one who has _gifted her the world_ , but she still won’t hesitate to kill you if you keep me up too late,” Will stated between enthusiastic mouthfuls. 

Amusement played across Hannibal’s face as he sipped at his wine. He said nothing. 

“You do know how obvious it is that you are the donor, right?” Will asked, more playful than genuine. 

“What do I do that make it’s so obvious, Will?” 

“It’s hardly what you do. Rather everyone else. All of their wandering eyes, just begging people to believe it was them. Begging that someone might think they could be responsible for the wonders of the new halls. Their false pretense that does nothing to hide the fact they wish to eat each other alive.” 

“What a perceptive boy you are.” 

“And you too are full of false pretense, Hannibal Lecter,” Will paused, letting the words sit and marinate in the air. “Except what you hide is a... magnificence rather than a deficiency.” 

“I suppose that depends on who is taking judgment.” 

“Well, I presume that I can see _it_ because you want me to. Is it good to be seen?” 

“Only by eyes that deserve to see such magnificence. It is a shame I can’t keep you all to myself, the vying crowd should lower their eyes when you perform.” 

“And yet.” 

Hannibal merely quirked the corner of his lip before taking another mouthful of food. 

“And yet the timing seems almost _off_. It was clearly related to the forthcoming show, so why wouldn’t the killer have waited until the eve of opening night or perhaps the final show? Ruin the show so that no one would get to witness what he believed himself entitled to.” 

“I couldn’t say, Will.” 

“Your line of work would allow you intimate knowledge of the timings of forensic procedures... Say, how long a crime scene might take to be processed. Or at the very least your pockets are well-filled enough to ensure _the show could go on_.” 

“Well, I suppose that’s right.” 

“The tarp on the stage floor – no evidence found anywhere but on that sheet. Take it away and it was as if it were never there at all.” 

“What do you suggest it means?” 

“The murder was no interruption to the show; it was a... matinee. An accolade of what was to come,” Will paused and leaned into the space between himself and the other man. “It was Rachmaninov’s _Isle of the Dead_ in the monochrome that he had first envisioned it.” 

“You know of the painting?” 

“Do you think me the type of person to get the role of danseur noble without doing my research into the piece on which the entire performance is based?” Will jibed with a pointed smirk across his face. 

“I never said such a thing.” 

“You don’t scrimp on research either, do you, Dr. Lecter?” He questioned, pointing his knife towards the man. “The killer knew every move as if it were a dance of his own body.” 

“I have seen it so many times before, how could I not see it for what it is.” 

There was so much Will wished to say; that it was only opening night, that the show was new and never before performed. But he knew what Hannibal meant; he could only wonder about the times in which Hannibal had watched from the shadows as the company practiced, as _he_ practiced. The words did not need to be said though; they both knew well enough what the other knew. 

“Is it not too _fluffy_ for your tastes?” 

“‘Fluffy’?” Hannibal seemed amused by such a word. 

“I only mean – Do you not think the point of the piece is unfulfilled?” 

Hannibal leaned in until the weapon brandished in Will’s hands was almost touching the soft flesh of his bottom lip. 

“Tell me, Will, what do you believe Rachmaninov would have wanted to see?” 

“When he saw the painting for the first time in person, he was disappointed – its color, its true hue did not live up to what he believed the painting to be. Dasha has painted the stage with color and it isn’t what was intended for the peace – Why do we dance a story of lost love, and not one of the perilous freedoms which death might bring?” 

“You wish to dance amongst waves, rowing ceaselessly until you reach the Isle?” 

“I wish to be the waves, Dr. Lecter. A thunderous motion which just might drown you before you reach the shore.” 

Will let his hand come down to rest at the base of Hannibal’s neck, playing gently with the cropped hair that rested there. Finally, he pulled the knife away; noting what seemed like disappointment in Hannibal’s eyes as he placed it on the table. 

“Who do you intend to drown, Will?” 

“Does the ocean decide who it drowns? Thus far the drowned in my periphery were put there by someone other than myself,” Will’s head lulled to the side, matching Hannibal’s pose. “A warning, perhaps? How should I ready myself for what may come?” 

“You don’t believe it was a warning, Will,” There was almost a tut in Hannibal’s voice as he spoke. 

“What then? A confession?” Will asked a question for which he needed no answer. 

“I suppose it depends to which type of confession you refer.” 

“Oh, you know exactly to what I refer. Don’t you suppose the perpetrator confessed at the wrong time?” 

Hannibal moved his hand so he was holding Will’s wrist as he continued to gently pull at Hannibal’s hair. 

“How so?” 

As the boy pressed his fingernails into the bare skin of Hannibal’s neck, Hannibal’s grip tightened around Will’s wrist. Rather than to stop him, it was to urge him to go deeper. 

“The beginning of the production – when all a dancer can think of is the months' of shows that lie ahead? When all I can bear to do is devote my body and soul to my performance?” Will said in false confusion. “The killer could not even steal an hour from me without needing express permission, let alone delight in my touch. I wager it self-flagellation to bring oneself so close to the object of their affections and yet unable to do anything but pitifully watch on.” 

“‘Delight in your touch’ or suffer in it?” 

“What difference is there between the two, Hannibal?” And as he said, Will took his now-bloodied fingers away from the man’s marked neck. His fingertips were reddened with his blood. Slowly, his fingers danced towards his lips before he began to clean the blood from each digit with his tongue. Will watched as Hannibal’s irises blew out and the pulse in his neck grew more erratic. 

“You talk as if you know the killer intimately, Will.” 

“After what he showed me, I do.” 

The curtain fell; the final act, the final moment. The lost love never quite rekindled, broken hearts left shattered on the ground. The savored breath which Will took in was one which it felt like he had been holding since the first day of rehearsals. The steady breath of an accomplished man. 

Painted red lips smiled brightly towards him; the smile which graced his own lips was bright and genuine and he watched as Beverly’s eyes creased as both their faces lit up. When finally, the dancers were ushered from the stage, Beverly was pulling him into a full-bodied hug. 

“Will Graham, we fucking did it,” Her voice was less than a whisper as they began the process of stretching out each other's muscles to begin the cool-down process. 

From behind the curtain, they could hear the crowd being to shuffle and move out. The final glaring sea of the season washed away. Once they had completed their stretches, the dancers crept backstage and towards their dressing rooms in a pleasant silence. A mourning of the finished show and the months of work that had brought them all together. A celebration of all they had achieved. 

As they reached Will’s dressing room, the door was ajar. Without a single moment’s thought, Beverly pushed at the door and Will could only watch as it swung open. As it knocked against the wall, the suited man and his sharp eyes were revealed to them both. A moment of awkwardness lingered as neither Hannibal nor Will knew what to say with a giggling Beverly between them. 

“You better look after him, Dr. Lecter, he’s been working hard,” She said, throwing a knowing look towards Will before pulling him closer to the man. 

“I intend to, Ms. Katz,” He was quick to wrap his arm around Will’s shoulder as he stepped towards him. “Congratulations on your excellent performance. Will couldn’t have done it without you.” 

“Oh, I know,” Beverly blew an adoring kiss to her crowd of two before skipping off to her own room. 

As Will stepped into his dressing room, he pushed the door closed behind him. A spread of food and drink adorned the table; more fancy handmade offerings from the doctor. A cushioned chair sat in the middle of the floor with a tub full of ice at the foot of it. 

“What is all this, Hannibal?” 

“What kind of man would I be if I did not provide you with the things you needed to ease you of your pains?” 

“A lousy one,” Will joked. 

Hannibal took Will’s hand and directed him to sit at the chair; seeming eager to prove to Will that he was no such thing. Quickly, he knelt to help unfurl the ribbons wrapped around his calves. Once he had removed the shoes from Will’s blistered feet, he guided them into the ice bath slowly, rubbing his thighs as to soothe the sting that the cold brought him. Will let Hannibal indulge in feeding Will; gentle hums of delight leaving his lips as he savored each delicious flavor that Hannibal was hand-feeding him. 

“Thank you, Hannibal. You are such a good boy,” Will cooed, stroking at the man’s hair as he went. 

The man’s cheeks were blooming red, and half-lidded eyes spoke of his contentment. As Hannibal let himself lean into the touch, Will couldn’t help but liken him to a cat; a comparison he would never dare to make out loud. Slowly Hannibal’s neck craned until his cheek was resting upon Will’s thighs. The way the man looked up at him with sinful eyes and even-more sinful lips made a heat stir inside of Will that he was eager to ignite. 

A knock at the door made Hannibal’s face sour, but he quickly pulled himself from his knees and went to the door. From behind the door, which Hannibal had opened the smallest amount he could, he could faintly hear the Russian accent he had become so familiar with. However, as they spoke to Hannibal, there was an alien sweetness in the lilt of their voice. Money really did change people. 

“Dasha, have you not worked the boy hard enough? His vacation period can be extended from tomorrow morning to this evening can it not?” 

“Yes, okay – but you tell him what I said. ‘No spicy food’; it is bad for him.” 

“Of course, Dasha. His health and his fitness are my top priority,” If it weren’t for the man’s adherence to social niceties, Will had to wonder if he wouldn’t have chosen to slam the door in the woman’s face for interrupting him. But all Hannibal did was nod pleasantly until Dasha took her own leave. 

Hannibal finally skulked back to Will, hands outstretched and _needing_ to touch _._ Practiced hands came quickly back to working at the tight spots on Will’s shoulders. The persistent pressure of Hannibal’s fingers was applied so perfectly; Will would have to have Hannibal do this for every inch of his aching skin. Will’s head lulled back until he met the adoring gaze of Hannibal’s eyes locked upon him. 

“Vacation?” Will questioned with a quirk of the eyebrow. 

“I want to show you Florence, Will.” 

“You intend to kidnap me to the other side of the world?” Will said with a laugh. “I have routines which I must maintain.” 

“I have everything you should need waiting for you there, and anything else you might need or desire I shall give to you.” 

Will did not doubt his words one bit. 

Hannibal’s hand came up to Will’s jaw, playing gently with the plush flesh of his lower lip. His eyes pleaded silently; Will let him beg, his begging growing more and more desperate as the atoms between them decreased. Their positioning was so awkward with Will’s lower legs still in the ice bath, but Hannibal still managed to push himself against Will in any way he could manage. Their lips were only a breath away Hannibal was keening into his touch, letting his chest and his hands and his hips press against Will in the way that his lips could only wish to. 

“Perhaps we should wait until Florence, Hannibal?” A devilish glint came to his eyes as such teasing words left his mouth. 

This predator before him was suddenly so placid, so defeated; remaining silent was all he could manage not to kneel before him and beg. His eyes pleaded, and Will could not help but meet his pretty silent requests. 

“Go on then,” Will beckoned, luxuriating in the way that Hannibal’s lips fell hungrily against his own; a parched man who had finally reached his oasis. 

The kiss was messy and hungry; Hannibal let himself explore the curves of Will’s toned body. But Will could feel that the man’s hands held back in their exploration. A gentle hand ran down his suited chest until it met the hardness barely concealed by cloth. A gasp left Hannibal as Will’s hand began pressing against him. Will pulled back from the kiss to admire the needy expression which Hannibal's face had been pulled into. 

“You chose such awful timing, Dr. Lecter. Forced me to wait for months only able to view you from the crowd when all I wanted to do was devour you. I hope neither you nor I will hold back now.” 

As his hand pressed more harshly into the growing hardness beneath the man’s pants, pleasant moans spilled against Will’s lips. The gasps only worsened as Will tugged at Hannibal’s fly; Hannibal lifted his hips until his pants and underwear were bunched awkwardly around his thighs. 

“You have seen so much of me in all those outfits that leave so little to the imagination. Isn’t it time I get to see more of you?” 

A stuttered moan left Hannibal’s mouth at the words and the way Will’s hands came to firmly grasp around Hannibal’s cock. From the way Hannibal’s eyebrows furrowed, Will could only imagine that Hannibal was doing all he could not to come right there and then. But Will didn’t move his hand, only held the length in his hand and waited. Impatient fingers were working at the buttons of his three-piece suit; Hannibal was abiding by Will’s request so quickly and so perfectly. Only once Hannibal was sat wearing only the pants and briefs that were pooling at his ankles did Will finally begin to jerk his wrist up and down. 

“Hmm, did you imagine me touching you like this as you watched me on stage?” 

“No,” Hannibal said, between ragged breaths. 

“No? What did you think of then?” 

In feigned annoyance, Will tightened his around the man’s dick, delighting in the way he hissed at the pressure. 

“I could think of nothing but the movements of your muscles underneath taut skin, the heaving of your chest with each steady breath, the concentration that pained your eyes,” Hannibal said. “It would have been a disservice to you to think like that.” 

“Oh Hannibal, I won’t be offended. It’s alright if you imagined me bending you over your seat and fucking you like a whore.” 

Something akin to a whimper left Hannibal’s parted lips. Even Will was somewhat surprised at the words which left his mouth. Such filthy words; but God did Hannibal’s reaction make him want to say them all the more. With his free hand, Will began to palm himself through his thin pants and Hannibal’s hands could not resist drawing closer; slowly ghosted up Will’s thighs until they were mere inches from his erection. 

“Are you just going to sit there looking pretty or are you going to help me?” 

There was a power in the harsh words, a hunger overtaking him. The discipline and routine which had bound him in place for months were gone and he was ready to give whatever Hannibal was willing to take. A gentle pat of his thighs was all it took for Hannibal to remove his shoes and his crumpled pants, lift himself over and sit on Will’s lap. The man before him was so willing and so needy; completely naked before him while Will was still fully clothed. Hannibal took the moments in which Will said nothing to begin rutting his hard cock against Will’s own clothed bulge. 

Will’s hands began to scratch at the skin of Hannibal’s back; working little cuts in the skin which he would enjoy seeing when he had the man on his hands and knees for him. His hands continued working down until he was kneading at his round cheeks. Hannibal’s eyes were shut tight; likely focusing on not coming too soon. But once Will’s finger wandered further down and began to tease his rim; his eyes flew open and his hips rutted against Will with a renewed urgency. 

“Oh...” Will slowly pushed a finger into Hannibal. “You’ve been waiting, readying yourself for this.” 

Hannibal was still tight, but Will’s two fingers worked more easily into the already-lubed hole than anticipated. 

“I have hoped... Since after that first night.” 

Will did nothing to hide the pleasure that came over him as he imagined Hannibal fingering himself open every night before a show for months with the thought of Will’s touch the very thing to bring him closer to the edge. Will reached back to the vanity and pulled a bottle of lube from one of the drawers. 

“You’d better get me ready so I can fuck you,” Will snarled as he handed it to Hannibal. 

Will pulled the waistband of his pants until his hard cock came free. Quick movements of Hannibal’s hands focused only on covering Will’s cock in lube, but the languid strokes still drew heavy moans from Will’s parted mouth. As Hannibal sunk himself on Will’s tip, Will let himself get lost in the perfect feeling of tightness that was encapsulating him. 

“Such a slut, Hannibal. Since you first laid eyes on me this is all you wanted, isn’t it?” 

“Yes, yes, ah-” Hannibal’s head nodded frantically as he slowly worked himself lower onto Will’s cock. 

Will did nothing to help Hannibal’s plight; merely watching in amusement as the man’s hips became more and more erratic as he fucked himself on Will’s cock. His hands rested at the man’s hips; bruising fingers willing him further down. One of Will’s hands came up until it was at the base of Hannibal’s neck; only when it was in his fingers did he realize how much longer it had grown since the last time he had held it like this. With a ruthless pull, he craned Hannibal’s neck back until the pretty tanned skin was exposed to him completely. 

“Did you grow out your hair just so it would be easier for me to pull you around? Make you do exactly what I want you to,” Will’s chest was heaving now, and despite his best efforts, he could not quite stop himself from fucking his hips up into Hannibal’s wet heat. “Christ, imagine how easy it would be to push your mouth around my cock. How pretty you will be as you choke.” 

Words had escaped Hannibal now; Will just watched on as the man’s head nodded violently at such filthy thoughts. 

“Faster, Hannibal. Fuck yourself until you are coming across my chest.” 

Will had spent so many nights fucking into his own hand and imagining the man before him. His imagination had nothing on the real thing. The insistent rolling of Hannibal’s hips, the dirty moans that left him each time he moved just right and Will’s dick hit against his prostate, the way his tired muscles tensed and clenched as he came undone; Will’s imagination paled in comparison. 

Hannibal was not letting up; soaked in sweat, his fingers gripped furiously to the back of the chair to aid him. His concentrated face seemed to think of nothing but his want, his need to help Will reach climax. 

“Please come inside me,” Hannibal gasped out before his come began spurting out and dirtying the space between. 

Hannibal was too tired to continue on his fast-paced movements but ground himself down against Will repeatedly as the last drops spilled from him. 

The slow gentle rocking took Will over the edge; his own orgasm hit him and he could do nothing but moan into Hannibal’s neck and buck desperately up into the wet heat that Hannibal was giving him. Manicured nails dug into the flesh of Hannibal’s back; the pink marks would be so beautiful. Once he had the chance there were not be an inch of Hannibal’s skin that would go unmarked. Once Will was coming back to himself, he felt Hannibal suckling gently on his décolletage; an undoubted myriad of pink welts would follow. If they both had their way, Will wondered if they would even be content unless every inch of the other showed their claims upon it. 

Between stroking his hair, Will lifted Hannibal off of him and sat him down in his lap. He could feel the hot mess leaking from Hannibal and onto his thighs; the thought of the sight made his breath hitch. Soft and gratuitous hands wandered the expanse of Hannibal’s body, peppering kisses as he went. Finally, he landed their mouths together again in a chaste kiss. 

“You were so good, Hannibal,” Will praised between long breaths. 

“Thank you, Will.” 

“No, thank you, Hannibal. You have given me so much.” 

“There is so much of Florence which I wish to show you, Will,” Hannibal’s hands came to play with the damp curls sticking to Will’s forehead. 

“I know you won’t miss out a thing, Hannibal.” 

They kissed again; slow and long with no hurry or expectation of the other ever stopping. As Will knew Hannibal would never let him go, Will never intended to remove his grip from Hannibal. A new dance had begun and Will would see it to the end. 

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by Rachmaninov's 'Isle of the Dead' (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dbbtmskCRUY). He created the piece based on a black and white monograph that he saw of the painting 'Isle of the Dead' by Arnold Böcklin. When he saw the original painting for the first time, he said that he wouldn't have composed the piece if that is what he had seen and that he "liked it in black and white."
> 
> The coach/dance teacher is vaguely inspired by Dasha from Killing Eve.
> 
> I'm not entirely happy with this, but I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless! Kudos and comments always appreciated! Thank you so much for reading! <3


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